


Ivory

by itsnotlove



Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, diverging when Sam's about 18?, pre-established relationship that all participants are ignoring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 14:40:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13056045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsnotlove/pseuds/itsnotlove
Summary: Rafe is drunk, Sam is in denial, and there's a fire at some point.





	Ivory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Apetunias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apetunias/gifts).



> Happy birthday Anya! Ilysm have a wonderful day!
> 
> To anyone else reading this: this isn't my fandom, so I'm sorry about any errors there are. This is an AU, so Sam never got his bike and, well, it's all explained somewhat.
> 
> A massive thank you to Jen and Kay for guiding me through. You two are amazing <3

**THE FALL OF RAFE ADLER**  had been spectacular, if largely unknown. 

      He’d been born upon the tallest point of an Ivory Tower, feet firmly placed on a precarious ledge so high above others. As a young boy, he’d looked down upon those who surrounded his family without malice, unable to fathom their struggle to claw their way up to even the lowest landings. It was his right, by birth and by blood, to stand where he stood; to dance upon the thin ledge, to own all his father owned once he was old enough. 

      It wasn’t until he was a young man that he realised his birthright was tainted. What belonged to Rafe—the glory, the treasures, the respect—was not  _ owned  _ by him. Despite possession and the future transfer of power, it wasn’t  _ his _ . His birthright wasn’t to own, but to take it; nothing more than the opportunity to win it all from his father and prove to the world it belonged to him.

      Thankfully, Rafe had been born with the all the traits necessary to accomplish this incredible task. Wit, charm, and brilliance were not lost to him, and he was able to use each to his advantage. 

      By fifteen, he’d created a plan. 

      By seventeen, he’d put that plan into motion.

      Perhaps it was too ambitious; Libertalia was the place that couldn’t be found, and a boy who was not yet a man wasn’t likely to have better luck than those who had come before him. But ambitious is what Rafe needed to take hold of what was his, and to show the world he was more than just his father’s son.

      It was harder than it should have been, he’d thought, to assemble the persons necessary for the expedition. Two years of research had pointed him in a direction (whether it was the right one was something else entirely, but he was nothing if not adaptable), but his inexperience in other areas was the largest obstacle. 

      Clever and cunning though he was, Rafe had yet to learn when to play his cards to his chest, and just how closely he should keep them. He’d yet to learn how trust could be a man’s biggest asset, or his greatest enemy.

      He’d barely arrived at the airport when he got word of his father’s success. A man—his name didn’t matter, none of it mattered—had been the one to congratulate Rafe on having a father so desperately clever. It hadn’t occurred to Rafe that his father—the only person he’d confided in (though one couldn’t really say his declaration of his mission was really sharing confidence; preparing his father to feel pride, perhaps)—might see him as a competitor. That he might betray his son for one last hurrah and find Henry Avery’s treasure himself.

      Everything after was a blur of red and black, which faded into greens and browns and bruises that took too long to heal. Within weeks, Rafe had fallen from tower on which he was born, hands desperately clawing at its ivory sides, until he fell so far he couldn’t remember ever doing anything else. 

 

*****

 

All of this was dramatic. Too dramatic. Unnecessarily dramatic.

      Not to mention stupid—but maybe that went without saying.

      No; even if it did go without saying, it needed to be said: this was stupid.

      At thirty-something, Sam had thought he’d be somewhere else doing something else. It wouldn’t have been as exciting, but it wouldn’t have been as stupid either. At eighteen, he’d decided to swallow his own desire and work until his brain was bleeding from the monotony of it. To get a stable house, raise a stable brother if he could, and do what all the role models on television did. 

      He hadn’t expected he’d be following some twenty-something around, grabbing him by the collar to save his stupid arse from shit that was  _ so fucking stu- _

      It wasn’t worth all of this trouble. This… whatever it was, it wasn’t worth it. The kid—not a kid, but he acted like one, so fuck it, Rafe Adler was a kid—had sparked something inside him he’d thought long dead. Thrill maybe, or passion if Sam were feeling particularly drunk. Any other feelings and their names were firmly taped down to the bottom of heavy rocks and thrown into the endless ocean of denial that filled his chest. 

      Regardless, Rafe Adler was stupid, and both of them knew it. Dramatic too, Sam thought, what with his four-whiskey retelling of a past Sam had already witnessed. He hadn’t been the one to tell Rafe about his father, but he’d heard about it. While Rafe was certain no one knew, anyone within ten miles had heard the argument, and Sam had been close enough to witness the kids anger up close.

      If he regretted stepping in, Sam didn’t show it. The regret he felt for leaving Rafe—a kid around the same age as his brother—to walk off into the world alone, but...

      Thinking about it was useless. Whether Sam had dragged Rafe kicking and screaming to his shitty apartment to be raised alongside Nate or not, the results would have been the same. Rafe was always destined to be a hot headed idiot who chased after anything that was shiny enough to prove himself with, and he probably would have ruined Sam and Nate as well.

      Meeting again years after Rafe's explosion was nothing more than fate being cruel. Sam had grown up, become semi-respected (or as respected as a dropout could be), and had done his best with Nate. Nate was in turn doing his best to become even more respectable—even if he’d run into more than one problem because of his own adventurous streak.

      Rafe had pretended to recognise Sam, apparently unwilling to admit he’d forgotten who he was (God only knows what people might  _ think  _ if the  _ all powerful _ Rafe Adler  _ forgot  _ something), and had promised him enough money to pay off Nate’s student loans if only he’d just  _ ‘Come with me for a job. It won’t take long.’ _

      The job hadn’t been described but Sam had said no regardless. Of course he’d said no—this kid (yeah, a kid still; now and for forever, and Sam would keep thinking it) had no way to pay him (probably), and the work was probably dangerous. It might have paid well, but Sam had turned down better offers with more money than strings attached before.

      Giving Nate a fair chance, stability, a roof over his head and food in his stomach—those were the important things. It was Sam’s job, as his brother, to give Rafe everything he wasn’t given himself. He’d already let the sun set on most of his own dreams (like the motorcycle; Sam still dreamt of her, though he’d never tell a soul lest Nate find out and feel guilty), and he wasn’t about to let some idiot rope him into something that could leave Nate alone.

      He’d even turned his back on Rafe to walk away when he’d started to insist. That, Sam realised a beat too late, had possibly been the worst thing to do.

      He hadn’t been knocked unconscious when Rafe struck him, but the ensuing fistfight hadn’t been pleasant either. It had been loud, bloody, and attracted too much attention. Sam had barely had the presence of mind to run when the cops arrived, and would have found himself caught if it hadn’t been for Rafe shoving him him in the right directions.

      Rafe, the idiot, had made out (at the time, hours later, days later—almost constantly, when he didn’t have anything better to think about) as though it had been his plan all along. That he’d known Sam would punch him, that he wouldn’t be knocked out from the hit, and that they’d brawl until the police came and be forced to flee together. 

      And Sam, the idiot, knew Rafe had lost his head at being told no, for not getting his way, for knowing he could change the world if he wanted but lacking the means to do so, and had flown off the handle because of it. There was no way Rafe could have known Sam wouldn’t have continued the fight afterward, or just walked away once they’d put some distance between themselves and their would-be captors.

      Dumb luck was all it was. That, and Sam being stupid enough to actually enjoy the chase, the pain, the everything that wasn’t packing  _ fucking boxes  _ for some manager at a fucking grocery store overnight, or moving furniture during the day.

      He hadn’t told Nate the specifics, but that was mostly because Rafe was loitering nearby and Sam had no idea whether his brother would be roped in as well. He’d just said he’d be going away a bit for work, and Nate hadn’t questioned why. In fact, he sounded downright excited for him and had tried to get the details out. Sam could remember watching Rafe out the corner of his eye when he’d told Nate to keep his head down, and that they’d talk when he’d get back.

      If he’d known he’d still be gone some five years later, Sam liked to think he wouldn’t have left at all. But as he glared at the idiot sitting opposite him—with his stupid bangs (bangs, on a man, on this idiot) falling out from the rest of his carefully combed back hair to sway back and forth whenever he made a particularly loud point, with his neck all lit up with sweat despite the fire now being nothing more than embers that shouldn’t be lighting up much at all, the way he started to tell the story  _ again  _ (maybe he’d had more than four drinks); only with more excitement and hand movements that were far more violent—he wondered if that were the case at all.

 

*****

 

The mission was still the same as it had been when Rafe had first pulled Sam away from his boring life and shoved him headfirst into the blender that was treasure hunting; to find something bigger, something better and more wondrous, and to parade that something around the world until they (read: Rafe) was properly noticed. Surprisingly, Rafe had money—loads of it, and from terrible sources no doubt—which had gotten the pair tickets to some place with mosquitos the size of small cars, and fish that used  _ anything  _ liquid as a thoroughfare.

      While the pair had gathered more than their fair share of riches over the years, none of it ever seemed large enough. Rafe had, Sam thought, built a tower of his own from which he could peer down at mere mortals (Sam included), but it never seemed like enough.

      It wasn’t the treasure he’d yearned for, wasn’t the size he’d chased after, so it wasn’t  _ enough _ .

      Sam hadn’t helped matters at all either. His fondness for Nate hadn’t gone unnoticed, but Rafe’s unwillingness to assist him had. They spoke little of him—Sam certain Rafe would want to drag him into the mess, and Rafe sure Sam would—but the  _ donations,  _ as Rafe called them, that Sam made to Nate were a point of contention.

      While Rafe was hardly penny pinching, he seemed reluctant to want to spend anything they’d earned. Aside from a car bought on a whim and left somewhere on the side of the road in Eastern Europe, several custom suits worn once then lost in various hotels, bathrooms, and gas stations (and that one suit that had lost itself far up a tree somewhere in the Amazon), and his penchant for stupidly expensive shoes to match his ridiculously expensive hair gel, Rafe spent barely any of their treasures.

      It was ironic, Sam thought, that Rafe would be so like the man who had hid the treasure his father swiped out from under him. The money was secondary to fame, which was only wanted for the respect it garnered. The Adler name was already well known, and Rafe was desperate to climb out from under it and make people ask his father if he were related to  _ him. _

      After five long, dirty, sweaty years, they were no closer to finding  _ The Treasure  _ than they’d been when they started. And yet, there they sat in the cramped cave, drunk and poetic, arguing about where they might try their luck next.

      Rafe always had ideas—few of them good, but all of them rewarding—but Sam had his own. While the unspoken rule of never discussing Nate had been adhered to, Sam was drunk enough now to let how badly he missed his brother creep its way up his throat, wrap itself around half-formed ideas, and spew out his mouth before he’d thought about it at all.

      “Nate, he’s, uh, one of those...” Reporter? He’d studied it at college, but got bored with it until he went on that reality show and met that woman. They weren’t reporting the way most did on television, but they had microphones and cameras. Explored tombs. “He’s got resources.”

      Rafe went still, too still. The self assured smile was stuck to his face like a threat. 

      “Oh?”

      “Yeah.” Sam said. It was just a way to get Rafe to consider it, to consider Nate as useful. If Nate were useful, they could do this together, and Sam wouldn’t have to rely on memories and bi-yearly phone calls. He still didn't want to drag Nate into it, but... well, Nate was clever and strong, and just having the  _option_ of having him there would be nice.

      “You see, that’s funny.” Rafe said. He chuckled and ran his fingers through his hair only to have it fall back across his face when he was done. “Here I thought I had resources already, and I had you pegged as being a resourceful guy.”

      “Yeah, I am.” Sam shifted. “Right now I’m being resourceful.”

      “Is that it? Going to use your little brother, maybe hold him upside down and shake ‘til the pennies fall out?”

      “I don’t need his money.” Sam said, his calm ebbing away. “You don’t either. So don’t-”

      “So what’s he got, then?” Rafe interrupted. “What resources? We’ve got money, we’ve got-”

      “Leads.” Sam said, knowing full well it was only a guess. “Connections, knowledge.”

      “And you don’t?” Rafe asked. “Why do you think you’re here? We aren’t friends, Samuel. And you aren’t pretty enough to keep around as decoration.”

      Sam ignored him. “I just think-”

      “No you don’t. You don’t think.” Rafe said as he stumbled to his feet. He loomed over Sam, despite being on the other side of the fire, and wobbled a finger at him. “If you thought about it, you would have kept your mouth shut. I don’t need another partner, and I don’t need  _ my  _ partner running off with some-”

      “Some what?” Sam asked as he wobbled to his feet as well. “He’s my brother!”

      “Blood is useless. Meaningless. Doesn’t mean anything unless it’s paying the rent and-” Rafe threw his head back and laughed. “Oh you are, aren’t you? Paying the brats rent? He hasn’t earned a  _ cent  _ of-”

      “And you have?” Sam yelled. “Far as I see it, all you do is throw money around and get other people to do the heavy lifting for you. Too fucking precious to get your hands dirty without a designer pair of gloves on.”

      Rafe laughed harder, which was ridiculously out of place, so Sam stormed through the coals in front of him and shoved his shoulders. Rafe, too drunk to stand even without the shove, stumbled backward and landed hard against the wall. He gasped and struggled to inhale, his breath stuttered and full of unheard laughter. Sam exhaled roughly, then raised both hands up in surrender.

      “Maybe I shouldn’t have-” Sam’s sentence was cut short by Rafe’s fist connecting with his cheek. It wasn’t a hard punch by any means—sloppy and weightless, reluctant if he thought about it—but the liquor and surprise had him stumbling backward and only barely keeping his balance. His hand shot to his face and he rubbed the skin gently as he gave Rafe a once over.

      His stupid hair was everywhere, but did little to hide the expression on his face. If Rafe were capable of feeling human emotion, Sam would say he looked hurt, but that couldn’t be right. No, it was probably something about pride. He couldn’t throw a punch properly and now he was standing there breathing heavily, like he’d just run a marathon.

      “So it’s like that?” Sam asked as he straightened up.

      Rafe jerked his chin up so he could look down his nose at him. “Looks like.”

      This was the time for the pair to stare at each other; to circle one another as they sized the other up. It was a time for caution and planning, to read moves and circumvent attacks.

      Sam had never much enjoyed playing by the rules though, so instead of doing any of that, he charged at Rafe and tackled him into the wall.

      The cave shook with the impact, or maybe it was the pair of them shaking, as Rafe fought to catch his breath. Before he had, he drove his elbow down hard between Sam’s shoulder blades.

      Sam grunted and fell, but kept his arms locked around Rafe’s hips. Something strange was there, he noticed, pressed up against his cheek. Something that shouldn’t be there, but that he’d noticed before in situations exactly like this with Rafe. Something hard pressed agai—

      Rafe’s knee struck his neck, but there wasn’t enough room for him to get a proper swing so it did little damage. Sam squeezed Rafe hard, forcing him to lose his balance and lean forward, then threw him over his shoulder and onto the pit of dying embers.

      From the pit, Rafe laughed. He laughed long and hard, more genuinely than he usually did, as he rolled around in an effort to find his feet. Sam groped at the wall and dragged his way up, then fell bodily against it once he was standing. 

      “You’re crazy.” He panted. Rafe was still in the fire, starting to smoke, but the idiot hadn’t stood up yet.

      “Compliments,” Rafe said, “will get you everywhere.”

      “So you’ll think about it.”

      Rafe quietened immediately and rolled out of the fire. Somehow, despite the fact his clothes were smoking and he was covered in filth, he managed to look as haughty and upper class as possible. “By everywhere, I meant a Thai prison for trafficking.”

      “Specific.” Sam said.

      “You, Samuel,” Rafe said as he rubbed his face with both hands, “are a traitor. Not now, or maybe now but you’re better at hiding it. But later, soon. You’ll leave.”

      “Yeah.” Sam wasn’t in the business of pretending they were anything more than—well, whatever it was they were. “Yeah, because we aren’t friends, are we?”

      Rafe breathed out a laugh.

      “Not pretty enough for you.” Sam added.

      This time, some of Rafe's earlier amusement returned to his laugh.

      “Rugged, but not handsome.” Rafe said. “I had… you’re lucky your surprises make up for it. It makes it more…”

      “More what?”

      Rafe’s smile morphed into a smirk, and Sam supposed he was trying to look coy.

      “Not friends,” he said, “partners.”

      “Partners.” Sam didn’t like it, but the way he repeated it gave the opposite impression.

      “Partners.” Rafe repeated. “Though anyone who sees us will know the truth. I’m the brains, and you’re the brawn with some brains.”

      “If you had any brains you wouldn’t pick a fight, and you wouldn't want to keep me around.” Sam said, but a smile slipped out despite his best intentions. He slid down the wall and splayed his legs out in front of him. Maybe it was the booze, or the possible head wound from where he’d struck the wall, but his tongue was still too loose. “Wanna tell me why?”

      “Because you take my money in exchange for doing what I tell you to do.” Rafe said.

      “No, not—I don’t do what you tell me to do.” Sam said.

      “You wouldn’t get paid if you didn’t.” Rafe shrugged, as if it were obvious.

      “I get a  _ cut _ .” Sam said. "My _share._ "

      “I’m paying you in opportunities now. But don’t pretend it wasn’t money when that kid—”

      “Nate.” Sam said. “Nate’s my brother.”

      Rafe took a breath, and when he spoke, his voice was soft and quiet. “Partners, us two. There’s no room for three in two. Carry the one, or it’ll cancel the others out.”

      It didn’t make sense, at all, and it wasn’t because Rafe was slurring. Cogs turned, puzzle pieces moved and threatened to fall into place, but Sam chose not to think about it. To ignore it. Whatever things were, are, didn’t matter. They were searching for glory, for what they were owed (at least in Sam’s case) but had taken from them. There was no room for thoughts outside of it.

      “So that’s why we’re in the middle of nowhere.” Sam said.

      “The Ivory Coast.” Rafe said.

      “Côte d'Ivoire.” Sam replied. 

      “See?” Rafe rolled his head toward him, his eyes large and a strange smile on his face. He limped over to Sam and stood in front of him, looking down with the most peculiar expression. “You’re full of surprises.”

      "Wow, thanks."

      "Any time." Rafe abruptly turned and fell back against the wall, then slid quickly to the ground. His leg stretched out and over one of Sam's as he leaned into him, then let out a sigh.

      Sam wanted to ask what he was doing, why he always ended up sitting half on top of him, and why Sam never pushed him off. He wanted to—no doubt about it—but couldn't find the energy.

      "Don't do it yet." Rafe said, far more quietly than he had earlier. Somehow, it managed to sound like both a plea and a threat.

      "Yeah, whatever." Sam said, just as quietly. He ignored the heavy weight on his shoulder and the cool skin pressed against the back of his hand, and if he leaned slightly into it then it was only because he'd been sitting there first. "Who'd want to be around you anyway?"

      A breathy chuckle was the only response Sam received, so Sam kept his eyes on the embers and decided not to think.


End file.
